


The Five Times Mycroft Took Care of Sherlock and the One Time He Didn't

by ViennaWarren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViennaWarren/pseuds/ViennaWarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft loves his little brother, even when he's ill. It's his job to take care of Sherlock, after all. Five times Mycroft took care of Sherlock, then one incident where Sherlock was forced to do the same to Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wasted

Mycroft Holmes knew his brother needed help.

He just didn’t know how to proceed. It’d been a long time since he’d taken care of his brother, specifically for drug use. The last time was when Sherlock was what, sixteen? Mycroft shuddered at the thought. It hadn’t been a fun time for Mummy or Father.

The only reason Mycroft had even noticed Sherlock’s disappearance was because of the state of his flat. With John and Mary on their honeymoon, Sherlock had been living alone and was strangely quiet. Mycroft had expected some kind of outburst, maybe a fit of rage or a few rowdy trips to the bar; things that Sherlock typically wouldn’t do. So when he’d gone to see Sherlock about a potential case, Mycroft wasn’t completely surprised to find it messy and vacated.

He carefully stepped over a pair of trousers and an empty carton of milk as he made his way out the door.

* * *

“Yes, right, I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft informed the hooded figure posted outside of the drug nest.

“Who wants to know? I don’t know no Sherlock.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and flashed a badge. “Step aside, British Secret Service.”

The man quickly pulled his hoodie off and threw his hands up in surrender. “I’m clean, I swear! I’ve been going to a help session every Tuesday night!”

“I’d suggest tranferring to another group.” he suggested snarkily, moving past the man and towards the heart of the nest.

“Sherlock!” he called into the scattered collection of people. “Sherlock.”

His brother was slumped in the corner, wearing a coat much too large for him. “For God’s sake!”

Mycroft hauled Sherlock to his feet. “We’re going home.”

Sherlock began laughing hysterically.

“What?”

“Home to Mummy?” he giggled.

“No, to your flat. Come on, let’s go. Lift your  _feet_  Sherlock, you know how to walk.”

“Do I?”

Mycroft sighed. He hated Sherlock acting like this, so childish. His brother was a grown adult, not a teenager anymore, and needed to act like it. Getting high on cocaine or methamphetamines or whatever the hell he was on just proved how stupid he could be.

* * *

Two hours later, Sherlock was lying on his couch, detoxing. “M-Mycroft.”

“What, Sherlock?” Mycroft droned, not exactly listening.

“I’m hungry. I want a sl-slice of p-pie.” He was shivering and sweating profusely.

“Not now.”

Sherlock coughed roughly and made a face. “John would’ve given me some.”

“I’m not John.”

“I w-want John here, n-not  _you_.”

Mycroft’s face didn’t change. “How unfortunate.”

After a couple minutes of angry silence, Sherlock began trying to remove his clothing. His brother stared as Sherlock took off his t-shirt and trousers and kicked them to the floor.

“What? I’m hot.”

“Sherlock Holmes, put on some trousers!” Mycroft yelled, snapping his computer shut. “I’m tired of your foolishness.”

“No!” Sherlock snapped back. “If you’re not careful, I’ll take off my pants as well!”

“For God’s sake, do I need to call Molly?”

Sherlock paled. “No, please don’t.”

“You know what? I fear I may be right. Let’s see, Molly Hooper…” He pretended to scroll through the contacts on his mobile.

“No, Mycroft!” Sherlock stumbled to his feet, tripping. “Don’t phone her!”

The older brother raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to behave?”

“Yes.” Sherlock retreated to his sofa, collapsing on it and put his shirt on.

“Now go shave and wash up. I can’t stand looking at you covered with… ‘scruff’.”


	2. F-R-E-A-K

A tiny, messy haired boy was building a city with wooden blocks, although he would probably tell you he was constructing a bustling city with a rather large population and a booming industry of entirely based upon socks. Sherlock Holmes was known to have quite the imagination.

So when five-year-old Thomas Crutener stuck his tennis-shoed foot into the makings of his fantastic, thriving metropolitan area, Sherlock became angry very quickly.

“You  _imbecile_!” he sputtered as the blocks flew in every direction. “That was not your city to destroy!”

“What’s an ibisel?” Thomas asked menacingly. “I don’t like your stupid city or your weird hair. You’re a freak.”

Filled with rage, the small child lunged at Thomas. “Well, your thin hair doesn’t agree with me either!”

The blond boy let out a screech as Sherlock’s tiny fists pulled on the other kid’s hair. In a swift change of events, a much larger child grabbed a tuft of dark, curly hair and yanked Sherlock off him. Not even understanding what was going on, the larger boy, called Jacob, began to beat on him. Both boys managed to bust open his lip and bloody his nose before a teacher could get to them.

“Jacob! Thomas! Dear God,  _Sherlock_! Come on now, we’ll have to take a trip to Mr. Costello’s office.”

Even when crying and emotionally compromised, Sherlock knew exactly who Mr. Costello was and that was the headmaster of their private school.

* * *

“Sherlock!” Mycroft scolded as Sherlock sat outside the office, waiting to be evaluated. “What’s happened to you?”

“Are they going to call Mummy and Father?”

“Most likely.”

Sherlock whimpered and sniffled. “By dose is hurtig. Ad by lib.”

Mycroft opened the jacket of his school uniform and handed his little brother a clean handkerchief. When Sherlock didn’t immediately accept it, his brother gently pressed the cloth to Sherlock’s nose and held it there.

“Wait until the bleeding stops. I don’t think it’s broken.”

“Will I get paddled?”

Mycroft scoffed. “I don’t  _know_ Sherlock, I’ve never been to the headmaster’s office.”

“I don’t want to be hit again.”

“What happened?” Mycroft asked again, this time in a softer tone.

“Thomas Crutener knocked my block city down so I knocked him down. Then, Thomas and Jacob hit me.”

“That’s unlike you, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s twelve-year-old mind was whirring like a machine. What had really upset him? It was out of character for Sherlock’s emotions to blind him. Often, Mycroft wondered if he  _had_ emotions. He had taught Sherlock well, that much was certain.

“Thomas called me a freak.”

And there it was.

“You are not a freak.” the eldest Holmes brother assured him. “In fact, Father might allow us to change schools again, due to the low averaged IQ scores of this glum commoner’s zoo. They’re just goldfish, swimming around and gorging themselves on stupid indulgences.”

“Really?” Sherlock mumbled beneath the handkerchief, tilting his head back to better stop the flow of blood. Mycroft tried to bite his own tongue so as not to sound so sentimental, but the words escaped his lips anyway.

“And Mummy might make you a cup of tea when we get home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm impressed I got such a positive response on my first chapter! Thanks to fuckityfardisgetinthetardis (love your username) for their kind words! I know this was concise, but it was based off a prompt someone gave me on Tumblr and it sort of fit. For those interested, Sherlock is five years old and Mycroft is twelve. Thanks, lots of love,
> 
> ~VW


	3. A Wild Night of Bad Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: For emetophobes, this features drunk!hungover!Sherlock, so you know what that means. Being an emetophobe myself, I did not go into detail as far as that goes (there isn't even a mention of THE word). If you have no clue what emetophobia is, you probably won't be bothered by it! Enjoy!
> 
> AN - Hello, once again! Next chapter should be up either much later tonight (think wee hours of the morning) or later tomorrow evening. Sherlaufeyson, thanks for your review! Much appreciated and they made me smile :) I hope everyone has a good rest of the night!

When Sherlock had come stumbling home at three in the morning, reeking of beer, Mycroft had been aghast. Sherlock and drinking did not go together, especially during winter break, when Mycroft had just returned home from university.

His father and mum had not even noticed Sherlock's little disappearance, probably because they had been working tirelessly up to the holiday.

Pursing his lips and whispering to his brother to shut up, Mycroft led Sherlock through the dark house and into his bedroom. The mass of curly hair giggled and collapsed into the bed.

“Get underneath the quilt!” Mycroft ordered through clenched teeth.

“M’crof?” Sherlock slurred. “Wha’re you doing herr? Ar’n you at school?”

“No, Sherlock, I returned from uni four days ago. Not that you’d remember, I suppose.”

“I’ve been t’a social gather’n.”

Mycroft stared at his brother. Sherlock, invited to a party? No…

“Who invited you?”

“I did.” Sherlock laughed.

Mycroft smacked a hand over the younger boy’s mouth. “Quiet, fool! Do you want Father to discover you intoxicated?”

“Um, no?” Sherlock smacked his lips accidently, then cracked a grin at the sound of it. He smacked his lips again.

“Quit it.”

* * *

The following morning was not as pleasant for Sherlock.

While Mycroft was asleep in a velvet armchair next to his little brother’s bed, Mrs. Holmes opened the door.

“Sherlock?” she called gently. “Wake up, breakfast is ready. Oh, Mycroft!” She gasped in surprise, her hand over her heart. “Good gracious, you scared me!”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed open. “Sorry, Mummy. I, um, Sherlock was feeling well last night so I stayed with him.”

A plausible story, for sure.

“Oh, the poor dear.” She entered the room. “Sherlock?”

At the mention of his name, although a rather late reaction, Sherlock opened one eye and groaned. Smelling the sizzling bacon and eggs coming from the kitchen, the younger brother turned a pale shade of green and quickly leaned over the opposing side of his bed.

Mycroft was on his feet in an instant. “Mother, do we have any Pepto Bismol?”

“I think so! Sherlock sweetie, I’ll be right back!” she told him, hurrying out of the room.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, resting his hands on the end of the bed, “do you remember what you did last night?”

Sherlock sat upright, coughing a little. Mycroft watched Sherlock make the appropriate deductions. He was still dressed in his clothes from last night. He grabbed a fistful of his shirt and nearly immediately recoiled, it stinking of alcohol. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he paled.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Shall I help you to the restroom?”

“Mycroft, did I...” He trailed off and closed his eyes, clearly fighting nausea. “Did I go out last night?”

“Some party.” Mycroft scoffed. “Quite a mess you’ve made of things, hm?”

Sherlock made a face. “Party? I don’t  _attend_ parties. Do Mummy and Father know?”

“No, I’ve made sure of that. An influenza strand has been going around the university, so you may have picked it up from me.” Mycroft leaned close to his younger brother’s ear. “Although, if you should pull another stunt like this, even while I’m away at school, I shall come back home and beat some sense into you.”

Sherlock would’ve chuckled had he not felt so sick. Mycroft threatening him? That was laughable. Another wave of nausea hit him and his stomach lurched. Like a tiger after its prey, Mycroft lunged for the wastebasket in the corner of the room and practically threw it into Sherlock’s hands.

Mrs. Holmes returned, pink bottle in hand. “Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed with a hand on her son’s back, “must be the flu.”

“Oh, yes, Mother. Some of the students at uni have had similar symptoms.” Mycroft winked at his pale brother before exiting the bedroom. Sherlock moaned and pulled the blankets up to his chin, vowing to never drink again. For awhile.


	4. Broken

When Mycroft Holmes heard of his brother’s leg injury, he trekked back home immediately.

“No need to be worried, just took a fall down the stairs. His poor leg is broken though, the dear…”

Mycroft barely registered what she was saying. Although he hated to admit it, Sherlock sick or hurt caused him great anxiety. After all it was his  _brother._

“It would be helpful if you could come home. He’s a little lonely.” Mrs. Holmes hinted lightly.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “I’m on my way, Mother.”

* * *

“Mycroft, thank God!” Sherlock was lounging on his bed, broken leg elevated on a couple pillows. A pair of crutches earned up against the bedframe.

“Brother mine, how  _are_  you?” Mycroft crooned in a mocking tone. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ve been better. The snapping of one’s tibia hurts a great deal more than one would think.”

“Are you on medication?”

“No. I haven’t been taking them.”

“Sherlock.”

“Paracetamol? Really?” The younger Holmes’ brother shrugged. “I doubt it would improve my condition.  _Ahh!_ ” He winced as Mycroft sat on his bed.

“Sorry.” He apologised dryly and gave Sherlock a sympathetic smile.

“Dear God, Mycroft, what have you been dining on at uni?”

“I’ll force you to take your meds if you don’t watch it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Like you could actually get me to take my—”

“Oh, Mother!” Mycroft called in a sing-song voice. “Sherlock is in great need of some—”

“Orange juice!” Sherlock announced, smiling pleasantly as his mum entered the room.

“Orange juice?”

“Yes please, Mummy.” Sherlock could be such an angel when he wanted to be.

“Back in a jiffy!”

“See, I told you.” Mycroft patted his brother’s arm and got up.

“ _Ahhh!_  Jesus, Mycroft!” Sherlock yelped. The slightest movements caused his little brother pain and Mycroft could barely stand it. Come to think of it, Sherlock was looking rather pasty and his normally bouncy hair was plastered to his sweating forehead.

“Right, sorry.”

“Juice!” Mrs. Holmes called, poking her head into the room. Mycroft took the glass from her and expertly added a few painkillers into the citrus juice while their mum fussed over the youngest.

“Drink up, Sherlock.” Mycroft advised, handing him the glass of orange juice, a barely noticeable twinkle in his eye.


	5. Hallelujah

Mycroft Holmes’ mobile buzzed in his vest pocket. He was stuck in a tedious meeting, something about the faults in governmental policies, and was desperate for an escape. As the presenter droned on in front of him, Mycroft took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at it.

**Sherlock is sick and refuses to go home. Come get him, please. –GL**

Mycroft quickly texted a reply to Lestrade’s plea.

_I’ll be there momentarily. Send me a location. –MH_

**We’re at a suspect’s place of resisdence. 3120 Jackson Way. –GL**

“Ah, excuse me, Mr Hashe. Family emergency.” Mycroft stood up abruptly. “Do forgive me.”

The man cleared his throat. “Er, quite alright, Mr Holmes. I’ll have Mr Wilder fill you in next week.”

* * *

“I’b find!” a noticeably congested Sherlock protested. “Hardly sigk at all.”

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air. “You’re clearly fevered, mate! You thought my name was George!”

“Isn’d id?” Sherlock gasped out before going into a coughing fit. Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan edged away from him wearing a disgusted face.

“No! It’s Greg,  _Greg_!”

“Greg, he doesn’t know your name on a normal basis.” Mycroft pointed out, earning a triumphant grin from Sherlock. “But let’s play deductions, shall we brother?”

“Bycrofd, don’d be like this.”

Mycroft stepped closer to Sherlock until their noses were almost touching.

“Let’s see. Your brow is lined with sweat, though your hands appear to be shaking and you have evident goosebumps, suggesting you’re chilled. Therefore, I conclude fevered. Additionally, your nose is tinged pink, probably because you’ve been excessively blowing your nose which must be running because even now, you’re sniffling.”

Sherlock blushed, bringing his wrist to his nose.

“Itching too I bet, so you’ve been sneezing? I saw you coughing earlier as well. I can narrow down illness by your symptoms, so I’d diagnose you with a head cold, worse enough because of the fever to require bed rest.”

“Shame Dr Watson isn’t present to take your temperature and make you a cuppa.” Sally commented.

“Shud up, Donovan. Do one deeds your idput. He’s gone away with Mary for a bit.”

Lestrade bit down a smile but Mycroft was frowning. “Case closed. Let’s go home. And you can stop holding in your sneeze, by the way.”

“ _Huh… hurESHHH_!”

“Bless you!” Lestrade called after him as the two walked off.

* * *

“Into bed.” Mycroft ordered flatly. Sherlock groaned.

“Haven’t you tortured be enough?”

“Nope. I’ll fetch the thermometer.”

Sherlock sighed and obliged, crawling into bed.

“Right.” Mycroft announced, striding into the room. “Open up.”

“Is this really decessary?”

“Now, I’m not a certified doctor, but I believe this is the part where you say ‘ahhh’.”

Minutes later, the eldest brother clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

“38.5°C. I prescribe you sleeping for once.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “For once? I do sleep… occasionally.  _HurCHOO!_ ”

“I put some tissues on your bedside table. Please do get some rest, I’ll be just outside.”

“Okay.” Sherlock sniffed thickly, blowing his nose and then turning on his side.

* * *

After an hour of watching re-runs of  _Queer Eye for the Straight Guy_ , Mycroft’s shameful guilty pleasure show, the young man thought it best to check on his ill brother. Softly humming “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s  _Messiah_ , he opened the bedroom door.

Sherlock was completely submerged under the blankets and only some bits of his dark, curly hair were sticking out. He was snoring, though not too loudly, a definite sign that he was sick. Despite this, Mycroft smiled. Seeing his brother this tired and helpless had a sort of humour to it.

Still gently humming under his breath, Mycroft turned to leave.

“Wait. That was… dice.” a voice mumbled from underneath the sheets. “Don’d go yed.”

“What was nice?”

“Your hubbing.  _Huh… eh…_ ” Sherlock began to sneeze again, but it got caught in his throat. He exhaled in frustration.

“Okay, I’ll stay for awhile.” Mycroft agreed. “But promise you’ll get some rest. Lestrade and his ‘crew’ can wait.”

“M’kay.” Sherlock mumbled sleepily before slipping into unconsciousness.


	6. Surprise

The man came out of nowhere. One minute, Mycroft was walking down the street, ready to hail a cab, the next some ski-masked man was trying to stab him. All Mycroft could see was the stranger's huge, brown eyes glaring at him as he lunged at him.

Mycroft didn't think; everything happened so fast. An elbow made sickening contact with the attacker's nose, stunning him. One quick jab to his ribcage, most likely cracking two and a swift kick to the chest, sending the assailant flying. A bloody knife flew out of his hands as he soared backwards into a couple of garbage bins. Mycroft heard his head smack hard against the brick exterior of a group of flats and was satisfied. He'd call Lestrade later to identify the man's body and find a motive.

As Mycroft raised his hand to call a cab, a sharp pain caused him to gasp. Glancing down, he saw a spot of blood blossoming through his white blazer, just under his lungs it appeared. _Damn_.

He placed his hand lightly over the wound so as not to get blood everywhere, but he was losing it fast. Mycroft didn't want to be a bother, but after assessing his general location, John and Sherlock's flat would be the closest destination to seek medical help. It only made sense.

"Hey mister, you gonna get in or what?" the cabbie was yelling out the passage window.

"Apologies, sir." Mycroft wheezed, practically collapsing into the taxi. "221B Baker Street." He handed the cab driver a couple bills and they were on their way, speeding through the congested streets of London.

* * *

Despite the pain he was in, Mycroft managed to correct the uneven knocker that so annoyed him. He hoped John would answer the door because he was feeling very lightheaded now and didn't want to alarm his little brother. However, the stars were against him in that moment.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock said his name slowly.

"Sherlock," Mycroft spoke shakily, "how very good to see you."

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock stepped aside to let his brother in, closing the door behind them.

"I've been... er..." Mycroft managed through clenched teeth. "Is your boyfriend home?"

"What? Who? Er, no he's out fetching groceries." Sherlock replied in a daze. What was the matter with him?

Mycroft's knees buckled and he felt himself falling, only to be dragged back to his feet by Sherlock. The older Holmes brother could feel his body temperature rising and a sick feeling came about him. " _It'd be so much easier to sleep_ ," Mycroft thought to himself as his eyelids fluttered closed.

"No, no! Mycroft, stay awake. Do you hear me, you've got to stay awake!" he ordered sharply. "Mrs Hudson! Get a bed prepared!" he called up the stairs as he half-carried, half-dragged his brother.

"Gracious me!" Mrs Hudson shrieked upon opening the door.

"Mrs Hudson, dial John for me." Sherlock focused on keeping his voice steady as he carried Mycroft into the room.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock slapped his brother's face. " _Mycroft!_ " He felt his brother's forehead and grimaced. The skin was cool and clammy, far from normal. Why the bloody hell was John taking so long to get a few groceries?!

"Sherlock, John's on the line!"

Sherlock snatched the phone up and swallowed thickly. "John!" he croaked. "It's Mycroft."

"Breathe, I need you to breathe okay?" It was amazing how John Watson could sense his friend's panic through a wireless telephone. "What's wrong?"

"St-stabbing I think. Yes, yes, I know that's what it was. Probably. I mean, I don't know!"

"Sherlock, you're getting panicky. Stay with me. Is there a bullet hole?"

Sherlock knelt next to Mycroft and ripped open his shirt, so as to get a better view. There was so much blood, so much blood…

"It's a stabbing, near his lungs. Could one of them be punctured?"

"Okay, is he breathing?"

The rise and fall of the injured man's chest was somewhat laboured, but he was indeed breathing.

"Yes."

"That's a good sign; blood would be clogging up his airway if his lung was punctured. Now stop the bleeding. Use some clothing or something. Anything, we need to work fast."

Sherlock nodded, though John couldn't see him. Wasting no time trying to get the rest of his brother's shirt off, Sherlock pulled his t-shirt over his head, balled it up and pressed it to the wound.

"Remember, put lots of pressure on it." John advised. "I'm almost home, okay? Two more blocks. Keep talking."

"It may be working."

"Of course it is. Press firmly now."

The detective did so while Mrs Hudson bustled about the kitchen, making tea.

"Okay, since the wound is near the lungs, you're gonna want to cover it with something, say… foil! Sherlock, ask Mrs Hudson too—"

"Mrs Hudson, tin foil!" Sherlock snapped, causing the woman to jump.

"Here, dear." She handed it to him and he hastily tore a piece off.

"John! Now what?"

"Tape it on the wound, but don't cover it completely; you don't want air going inside of the pleural cavity."

"Okay, now?"

"Just make sure he's breathing, I'm coming up. I've called the hospital, just in case."

* * *

Mycroft Holmes awoke in the hospital dazed and confused. The first thing he did was attempt to pull his IV out.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Sherlock told him, sitting in a chair reading a novel.

"Sherlock? What happ— ohhh…" Mycroft bit his tongue. "Er, I was stabbed."

"I know." Sherlock snapped hotly. "I figured that part out as you nearly bled out on my apartment floor!"

"Sherlock…"

"No, don't pretend like this is a trivial matter, I—"

John walked into the room. "I, uh, sense some tension. I'll come back later."

"Please do." They both responded, then glared at each other.

"I didn't want to cause a ruckus!"

"Well, bravo! Looks like it was a success."

"I was planning to see John in private, so as not to upset you—"

"Upset? I'm not upset!"

Mycroft scoffed. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Your voice has risen at least two octaves higher than normal."

"You are such an idiot." Sherlock retorted, slamming his book shut. "I don't know how we're related. How could you have been so stupid? You could've _died_ , Mycroft."

"I'm sorry." Mycroft muttered under his breath, sitting up straighter.

"Pardon?"

"Sorry."

"Stop mumbling!"

"I'm _sorry!_ " he yelled.

Sherlock grinned. "I know, just wanted to hear you say it a couple times."

* * *

 


	7. ::End Notes::

Hello, Vienna here. I'm having some technical difficulties, so this will be deleted in 24 hours or less, but I just wanted to thank you guys for reading. If you ever have any requests, don't be shy; come talk to me! Thanks and have a nice rest of your night.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! So I've got a new story going, this Sherlock one. I'm still open to prompts for this fic so if you want, you can either PM them to me or merely leave them in the comments. If you're not familiar with this trope, I'm doing five chapters of Mycroft taking care of Sherlock and one chapter of Sherlock taking care of Mycroft. What's plaguing them and how old or young they are is up to you! Thank you guys and I hope you enjoy the rest of your Sunday night.
> 
> Disclaimer - I don't own Sherlock (BBC) and I don't think I ever will. All characters were created by [not me].


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